Flutter of Breath
by fluffyinmypocket
Summary: Pitch has been defeated, but there are things out there that hunt even nightmares. Leading the Guardians into unknown circumstances, Sandy answers a call for aid from his once enemy. But with fear fading and dangers rising against the children of the world, will the Guardians be able to protect the darkness or are they all doomed to be eclipsed by something even bigger?
1. Empty Room

_Daddy, wake up._

Golden eyes flew open, frantically searching the darkness for any sign of movement as he gasped for breath, fighting off the vague feeling of suffocation. The room that he found himself in, the throne room of his lair was darker than it usually was due to the lack of entryway from the outside world, but the loss of light made no difference to his sharp eyes. Faintly he could see the outline of one of his Nightmares lingering in the shadows, but he could discern no others in his periphery. Probably a good thing, as now that he was able to establish the lack of immediate danger the Nightmare King could feel the keen ache of his injuries making themselves known and could not help but let out a soft groan of discomfort. Being sprawled out on the cold stone of the floor for who knows how long did nothing to help matters. Thank whatever gods there were that he was immortal.

Not quite sure how he had managed to get to this room in particular, but not really caring, Pitch allowed his head to lull to the side. A light layer of dust had settled on the floor, giving some hint as to how long he had been unconscious. The Nightmare King was disgusted but it distant, almost as if the emotion belonged to someone else. Surely there were far more sanitary and comfortable places to rest than the cold stone underneath empty cages of annoyingly colorful molted fairy feathers.

Everything hurt and as he moved to sit his ribs seemed to scream at him the loudest for the abuse, causing a sharp, burning ache to skitter up his sides. Barely leaning on his elbows, Pitch screwed his eyes closed and tightened his jaw in preparation for what was to follow. There really was no other way, not unless he was to continue to lie on the floor the rest of eternity. So with one last shallow breath, the dark man forced himself into an upright standing position, resolutely ignoring the agony that the movement shot up and down his spine. Will power alone could not stop the world from greying at the edges of his vision, unfortunately, and Pitch knew that he was only seconds from collapsing back onto the hard stone floor again when he felt a solid form to his side keeping him upright. It took a moment for him to recognize the familiar semi-solidness of the Nightmare but Pitch was no less grateful for the assistance that one of the beings that had aided in his downfall was willing to provide.

"Good girl," he whispered to the beast, chuckling slightly when it turned her head to lip gently at his clothed shoulder. The Fearlings had always been nasty creatures that made his skin crawl but the Nightmares came with some mild fondness. And while the brief affection was all well and good, Pitch knew that he had to start moving while he still had a little amount of strength left to do so. Lingering was of no use to anyone. Resolutely he reached out with one greyed hand and nudged on the mare's head, silently indicating what he required from her. The mare needed no other prompting and began sedately walking from the darkness of the throne room toward the private quarters of the darkened lair.

He was grateful for his reputation at that moment in keeping others out of his home, as it meant that there was no reason that his rooms could not be close by to his holding chambers. Not that it did him much good anyway. The man and beast had just hardly made their way across the room and into the hallway before his strength began to leave him and he could feel his knees begin to buckle. It was only a split second adjustment of the mare at his side that had Pitch sliding down with her to the floor rather than tumbling down face first.

"Damn it all," he hissed tiredly. Pitch had never had to face this type of weakness before and the mere thought of it infuriated the dark man._ How dare they. HOW DARE THEY!_

Those stupid guardians probably didn't know, and if he was honest, didn't care about the damage that they had caused him during their little battle. What true harm could they really do a millennia old immortal? Four against one was bad enough without that little cretin, Sandman, using his sand to fling him around like a child's rag-doll. Yes, he had had the dream sand to work with and the Nightmares, but what was that in comparison to the powers of all the Guardians combined? What could possibly be worse than being cut down in front of the very beings that he had tried to instill a feeling of fearful respect? And then to have his own Fearlings drag him away had been rather embarrassing, sure, but the worst had been the feeling of all the power that he had worked so hard to regain over the centuries drain away because of those little brats that shouldn't have been a part of the conflict anyway. At least when he had fallen with the Dark Ages there had still been enough belief in him that though he was weakened he was still a force to be reckoned with. Now though, there was nothing to draw on but his own determination and that was quickly dwindling to nothing.

Pitch was brought back to the moment when he felt a tugging on the sleeve of his robes and turned his head to look at the mare calmly trying to get his attention. The Nightmare neighed softly when she saw that she had his notice and began to discorporate. Pitch panted in pain as the mare rematerialized underneath him, jostling his wounds and was quick to grab onto her mane to keep from sliding back to the floor. Gold eyes screwed up again as the sudden movement caused his stomach to rebel and try to remove any nonexistent food from his body. The Nightmare King made himself to take even, shallow breaths to keep from being violently ill as his mare continued on her way down the dim corridor. He could hardly blame the beast for his condition, she was only trying to help, but every step was agony and he was forced to press his face into her mane.

From the intensity of the sickness, Pitch could hazard a guess that he had been out for well more than a couple of hours, perhaps even days and that did not bode well for his chances of gaining his powers back in any quick manner. Regardless of how many nightmares came back to him, the general healing of his wounds would be primarily up to his own strength and there was not much of that to be found at the moment.

Stomach jolting again when the mare came to a stop, he pulled his face out of the soft sand that made up her mane and glanced about. The beast had brought him to his room, not that there was much to make it his more than any other room in the place. The walls were black marble, just as the rest of the lair was, and a few candles in sconces on the walls provided the only illumination in the darkness. There was little evidence that anyone had used this room in the recent past other than a few books on a bedside table and the dark grey sheets on the midsized bed that was pushed against the far wall. Outside of these few pieces of furniture, the room was bare of any and all items that may have made it more comfortable. Pitch had never minded this lack of personality in the room; he had never had many possessions to begin with and those that he truly cared about were kept on his person at all times.

With another groan, Pitch pushed himself up and practically fell onto the bed, stifling a scream when the pain flared up intensely with the careless motion. His vision darkened and the nausea that had threatened before came back relentlessly and proceeded to beat his head in with a dull spoon. Wave after wave of the intense feeling hit him for what could have been hours for all he knew, twisting and pulling his insides into rather creative origami, before slowly beginning to abate and he let out the breath that he hadn't realized he was holding. Laying where he was, with his left arm at his side and his right over his chest, legs askew and the sheets pooled around his frame, Pitch tried to regulate his breathing once again.

Once he felt like he was no longer careening into empty space, he opened his eyes to focus on the ceiling, the Nightmare King noticed that any light that had once filtered into the room had long been extinguished and the mare was gone from his side. It didn't matter. He was used to the darkness, it was what he was. And being alone was also nothing new, as he had spent hundreds of years in this very place without another being outside of the Fearlings…not that they counted as company. The lack of light did limit his choices of what he could do at the moment, though. While his vision in the dark was supreme in comparison to other spirits, trying to read in such cases was extremely difficult and he doubted that he was up for the task at the moment. Anything else required movement on his part and Pitch was loathe to do anything that even made him blink funny at this point. So the only real option that he had was to push himself into sleep and hope that he had healed more thoroughly when he next came around.

Already he could feel bone trying to realign themselves for healing and the multitude of cuts and scrapes had already scarred from his tenure on the throne room floor. His entire body felt like one giant bruise, each pulse of blood causing a numbing ache that would take days proper to stop. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been wounded this badly, to the point where he could barely move without pain, however, just because he couldn't remember it didn't mean it hadn't happened. Maybe not as the King of Nightmares but as someone else and now sleep seemed so much more palatable than these confusing shadow memories.

With a sigh he forced his tense muscles to relax into the cool fabric beneath him and closed his eyes once more, ready to lose himself to the peaceful oblivion that was unconsciousness. It was quiet for now, and he was sure that if something were to arise that needed his attention- the Nightmares would wake him. All that was needed for now was to heal and regain his strength. As he allowed his mind to fade into the black, his fingers inched up his chest to the skin right over his heart where a little lump formed under the flesh and stoked the area gently. The fingers passed over once, twice, and then he knew no more.

* * *

It was the stillness that next woke him. Through the years, Pitch had grown used to the subtle shifts in the air that came with the passing of a Fearling or more recently a Nightmare, sort of the way one becomes used to the gentle sound of electricity in the house, a sound that lay in the background of all other noise. It becomes a constant, unnoticeable in the day to day passing of life, but the moment this white noise is gone, the silence explodes around you without this gentle buffer.

Now, there was no movement of any kind in the lair. No Fearlings swooped through the shadows, no Nightmares skittering across the stone. It was almost suffocating. Even in the most sedate of times there was always some sort of movement somewhere in the depths of the darkness, but now there was only stillness.

Something was wrong and Pitch lie still for a moment, hoping vainly that some small whisper of something would reach him. But in his life, the only luck that he had ever known was bad luck, and now was no exception.

Slowly, so as not to aggravate any lingering wounds, Pitch pushed himself to a sitting position assessing the room as he went. There was no hiding in the dark from the man who made an art form out of utilizing the shadows. Golden eyes swept over every corner that may conceal something or someone and came away with the assurance that, at least in this room, he was alone. That didn't mean much. Quickly doing an inventory of himself, Pitch was able to ascertain that while his bones had healed and the scars where mostly gone, he was nowhere near peak form. His limbs were stiff from abuse and lack of use, aches still covered his body, and a general weariness clung to him like a cloak in the rain. Enough to get around but not much else.

Despite this, something was not right in his lair and Pitch needed to find out what it was before it began to cause major problems. Rising from the bed, he made his way slowly to the doorway and placed his hand upon the metal of the door's handle. The metal was cool under his skin, but not nearly as cool as the ice that seemed to shoot down his spine. The last that he recalled, the door to this room had been left open as the mare had brought him through and he had not had the inclination to close it at the time. The Nightmares could touch things, but there was not enough strength in the sand for one to move something as heavy as a door without many of them working at it and the Fearlings would never bother even if they could. So that left the question as to whom.

Someone or something had been roaming about in his lair, had been in his room with him uninvited while he was at his most vulnerable and that was not a comforting thought. Pitch called to the shadows and opened the door as his scythe materialized in his hand, stepping out into the dark of the corridor as it finished. Nothing appeared to be amiss, but something in the back of his mind told the Nightmare King that something was waiting for him further in the tunnels. Steeling himself against the wrongness in the air, Pitch began to creep down the length of the hall, silently calling to his Nightmares and Fearlings. He was disturbed but not altogether surprised when he felt no answer to his summons.

He moved silently, his boots making no noise upon the stone as he continued, making his way to the throne room. That was where whatever had made itself at home in his lair was hiding, he was sure of it. Pitch followed that feeling to the end of the corridor and allowed himself one more moment of preparation before peeking into the darkness beyond. He was in no condition for a fight and if things dissolved into one, he had to be on his guard.

Nothing obvious met his gaze, no disturbances in the dust on the floor, no break in the darkness of the shadows. Cautiously he stepped out into the room, being sure not to venture far from the wall. When nothing rushed out to meet him, Pitch allowed himself further into the room hoping to get a feel for whatever was here and when he felt the tell-tale feel of sand upon his free hand the dark man froze. He knew what it was immediately, it was the mare that had helped him in his weakness, but the fact that he hadn't even felt her before she touched him caused the blaring feeling of wrongness in his head to only increase. He slowly allowed his hand to move over her and rest on her neck, never allowing his gaze to leave the darkness around him.

Under his fingers he could feel the mare trembling lightly causing his anxiety to ratchet up. What did it mean when something scared a being of fear itself? Minutes passed and neither moved, eyes carefully watching for any discrepancy in the shadows that might allow some clue as to where the feeling of danger was coming from and when one of the shadows shifted slightly both were instantly on guard for attack.

But the second that it took for the air in the room to shift and become so thin as to almost not exist, Pitch knew it was too late.


	2. Troublemaker

Jack Frost had never been one that could be accused of taking himself too seriously. In fact, he often found himself to be the butt of his own jokes more often than not, but he kind of liked it that way. After all, at least if you found yourself to be amusing then that counted as one person laughing at your jokes. And later he would look back at this situation and laugh, entertained by the circumstances. Right now, however, Jack was glad that the rising belief in him had not spread much this far south and no one would see the way he swung ridiculously back and forth, trying to dislodge his hood from the branch of a large oak tree.

Here he was, just trying to do his duty and spread a little winter snow and, yet again, trouble followed. South Africa was very interesting, he had to admit. Cool people, funny accents. And he had a certain fondness for a little town at the base of the Drakensberg Mountains. It was tiny and not much to look at in many respects, but it was quaint and Jack found himself visiting many times (though if you were to ever ask him why he would merely smile and shrug). It was just one such visit that had him in the conundrum that he found himself in now.

He and the wind had always had a love-tolerate relationship, meaning Jack loved using the wind to get from place to place and the wind, ever magnanimous, went along with the idea to get the winter spirit to shut up. Jack admitted there was probably a reason most spirits avoided him; he liked to babble, most the time about nothing, and that seemed to irritate others. And sometimes the filter between his brain and his mouth did not function as well as it should. Call it a curse of being a perpetual teenager.

In all fairness, he had not meant anything with his comment that the wind was beginning to slow down some and was not a nimble as it used to be. It had, but saying so as it was carrying him over the countryside was probably not one of his best ideas as the wind stopped and unceremoniously dropped him into a tree. And it was here he got stuck on a branch by his hood, the cotton material slightly strangling him and causing him to accidentally drop his staff.

"Wind, come on," the winter spirit panted, "You know I was just kidding, right? You blow just as hard as you always have!"

Jack had just gotten his hands around the branch and was pulling the hood free when the wind exploded around him and twirled around him, knocking his hands down and twisting the cotton behind his head enough that it made breathing a bit more difficult. Not that it would kill him, but the feeling was rather uncomfortable. Jack gagged.

"Okay, okay," he croaked, "Not the best wording on my part, sorry. But do you think you could let me down so we can talk about this? You know how my mouth gets away from me sometimes."

The wind blustered around him again, spinning him the opposite direction but leaving him as tightly strung up as before. Okay, a new tactic then. Just as he was about to open his mouth to try again with the offended element, Jack spied a group of four young boys, laughing and hollering, running past his location. Jack smiled to himself and reached up to grab the branch and pulled himself up just enough to gather breath to yell and gain their attention.

"Hey, kids!"

Two of the four thundered past him, never once lifting their eyes from their destination to give even a hint that they had heard his call. The third, a smaller boy looking at least two years younger than the first two, paused feet from the base of his tree and looked up at the Guardian curiously. Luckily, the kid decided that the staff on the ground near his feet was no more interesting than any other stick.

"Hey there, Kid. Think you can give me a hand?"

The boy continued to stand in the dirt of the road, watching the mysterious spirit twisting in the tree, appearing for the entire world to not understand a single word that had come from Jack's mouth.

"Umm, _hello_?" Jack waved his hands, as if the gesture would clear up his meaning, "Little help?"

The boy continued to stare, keeping his eyes on the spirit even as the fourth of the boys came up beside him, peering up to where Jack hung in the tree and looked right through him. The fourth boy, taller than the other by a couple of inches, nudged the smaller with an elbow and asked a hushed question, careful not to overly jostle the object that he held in his hands. An object that unexpectedly began to writhe in his grip.

Jack paused in his struggle to free himself and focused his attention on the moving thing, suddenly feeling a leaden sensation settling in his gut. In the boy's hands thrashed a dark brown snake, twisting its lighter underbelly into the air in order to try and escape, its black tongue frantically flicking in and out of his mouth.

"Kid, maybe you should tell your friend to put that down. Do you have any idea how dangerous that thing is?!"

Jack continued to try and free himself as the smaller boy continued to watch and the taller of the two kept speaking to his friend in quiet tones. Jack pulled himself up, almost yanking the hood free, but just as he had the fabric practically over the limb, his hands slipped and he dropped back down, strangling himself once again.

The slighter boy snickered at the spirits predicament, never once moving to help. Jack continued to gag and pull at the fabric around his neck as the child turned to his friend and smiled mischievously before speaking rapidly in a language Jack couldn't understand. The other boy shared his smile and looked down at the still squirming animal then back at his friend. Jack frantically reached out towards the children, vainly hoping that they would look back to him and understand his concern. Giggling madly, both the boys turned back the way that their friends had gone and sprinted away, neither one looking back to see the hanging apparition.

Jack continued to tug at the hoodie, struggling to gain a decent grip on the wood above him. He continued long after the dust from the kids feet began to settle, even after he knew that the boys were gone and the sun began to set. Even if he was able to find the boys now, their mischief with the snake was likely to be over, with nothing he could about it.

Finally, as the moon rose in his peripheral vision, Jack let his arms fall to his sides and groaned. Getting out of the tree on his own was turning out to be a futile endeavor and there was only one thing that he could think of to solve his dilemma.

"Okay, you win. I give," the spirit rasped.

There was no response from the wind, at least none that the winter spirit was able to discern. Rolling his eyes to the stars, Jack groaned.

"Please?"

Long minutes passed as Jack waited, hoping for a favorable response from the sentient element. Finally, just when the Guardian was about to give up and try and continue to figure out a way to get himself out of the tree, the wind blasted through the branches in such a violent fashion that the branch that held the young spirit creaked loudly before snapping. Abruptly, Jack was dropped to the ground, knocking whatever breath he still had from his lungs and creating billows of dust around his pale form as though the dirt had sprung forth from him itself.

Jack stared up at the sky, laying spread eagle for several moments before he was able to pull in a ragged gasp of air. Coughing harshly, he pushed himself up and tried to keep from breathing in the still airborne dust particles dancing in front of his face.

"How about-"he wheezed, "how about we call a truce?"

A slight breeze rustled through his hair hesitantly and Jack grinned.

"So," he grunted as he stood, wobbling slightly due to his recent lack of air, "to the North Pole?"

* * *

Jack smirked as he hung upside down over his intended victim. The large yeti was none the wiser of his mischievous stalker and continued working contentedly on the toy boats that he was painting. The yeti turned to grab another color from his stand of paints, leaving the boat open to anyone who happened to stalk by. Just the opportunity that Jack was hoping for.

Quickly Jack reached out with one pale hand and wiped a still fresh line of blue paint from the hull of the toy, moving just in time to keep from being caught as the other turned back to his work. Jack snickered quietly to himself as the yeti exclaimed loudly at the streak of paint-less area on boat. The yeti scrambled for the blue paint that he had lay to the side only to turn and find the streak gone. Confused, he observed the toy for a moment before shrugging and turning back to his table to paints and reaching for another color. As he turned back, the yeti squealed in alarm as the blue hull that had previously been on the boat was now red.

Jack, ever the spirit of maturity, was floating in the air, doubled over in silent hysterics as the yeti frantically searched around and under the desk, desperately trying to figure out what was causing his paint to continue to change. Slowly calming from his fit, Jack watched as the yeti sat back down before the toy, eyeing the object suspiciously as he slowly reached for a new can of paint. Jack readied his staff, waiting for the other to turn away for a second, only to be yanked back away from the startled creature and into a large solid form. Jack looked up to find the bright blue eyes of North staring down at him with disapproval and a hint of humor.

"Jack," the older Guardian chastised, "should not pester, Phil. Is still frustrated over last time with dolls."

Jack rolled his eyes.

"Common, North. What little girl doesn't want a kick-ass mutant baby doll?"

Jack pulled out of the other's grip, deftly avoiding the swiping paw of Phil, and jumping to balance on top of his staff.

"I mean, if I were a girl, I think that would be the best thing ever!" North chuckled and shook his head.

"Let's just let yetis worry about toys for children, yes?"

North moved away from the work station and moved further into the workshop and Jack watched him for a moment before hoping down to the floor. Turning a little to look back as he walked, Jack gave a mock salute to the fuming yeti staring after him.

"See you later, Phil."

Jack deftly avoided the wrench that sailed by his head and slid through the halfway open door that North left open in his wake. He rushed to follow the large form that was moving down the hallway, trying and failing to hide his smile as the other man looked at him over his shoulder with a raised brow.

Jack followed the older man into his large Globe room and watched as North began pushing buttons over the console and flipping switches. Jack pulled himself up on the counter beside the board to watch the Guardian of Wonder work.

"What's up, Chuckles?"

It was a true testament to how comfortable North had become to having the younger spirit around that he didn't even flinch at the nickname. North simply continued with his work, never once pausing.

"Need to call a meeting and the signal must be sent."

Jack cocked his head and frowned.

"You mean your incredible light of awesomeness that excessively brightens the night sky and blinds all the poor birds that happen to be in the way?"

North paused in his movements and looked over to the winter spirit. He stood from his position hunched over the levers and raised a brow at the younger spirit.

"You have another idea?"

Jack couldn't help but smirk. Oh, yes. Yes he did.


End file.
